


we were driving, in the getaway car

by blackberry_jam



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Crime, Fire, Implied Sexual Assault, Mentions of Death, Other, VFD sucks, and it's a real bad one here, its kind of sad i guess, not a single capital letter so sorry folks, the title is a taylor swift song, uhh ambiguous ending, vfd is a big fucking cult, violet says fuck once or twice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25503577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberry_jam/pseuds/blackberry_jam
Summary: violet baudelaire glances over her shoulder as her feet, in thick-soled boots, thunder across the ground. her hair is flying behind her, a few odd strands weaving themselves out of the tight knot of the ribbon and her jeans, grimy from the vents are splattered with drops of mud.
Relationships: Violet Baudelaire & Quigley Quagmire
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	we were driving, in the getaway car

**Author's Note:**

> this just happened. i had a sad day, 'cause i listened to sad music and read sad books so i wrote some slightly sad words.
> 
> this was completely written on my phone, in like a hour or less while i listened to 'folklore' on repeat, without a single capital letter, sorry.
> 
> uh, also, this is partially inspired by taylor swift's 'getaway car', so listen to that i guess. 
> 
> enjoy, if you can, i guess.

violet baudelaire glances over her shoulder as her feet, in thick-soled boots, thunder across the ground. her hair is flying behind her, a few odd strands weaving themselves out of the tight knot of the ribbon and her jeans, grimy from the vents are splattered with drops of mud.

the bag on her shoulder is heavy, and so is the weight in her stomach, it's alright, though, she tells herself, it's like robin hood. steal from the rich, give to the poor.

except she wasn't giving it to the poor. she was the poor, trying desperately to payoff the debt she stupidly got herself stuck with a few years ago. 

this is the only way, she tells herself, but her mother's voice sticks in her head: there's always something.

well, look where that got her, dead. something violet was desperately trying to avoid ending up as.

it was times like these, as the alarms blared behind her, and shouts and cries whirled into the night, that she thought that joining a cult was a bad idea. 

she didn't really mean to join a cult, it just happened. she was on the streets, fresh out of foster care, chasing away creeps and fiddling with the frayed end of her ribbon when they’d first approached her, a man and a woman, dressed the same, and in hindsight, she shouldn't have even listened to their proposal.

but, their words of ‘a new world’ and the amount of times she was praised for her abilities, never stopping to think how they knew about that, had won her over, and soon she was living in an apartment building with a whole bunch of others. 

at the start, she was the only child, and then they found others, and her lonely old bunk room felt less lonely.

it was nice, for a while, until she and one of the other girls, tiptoeing to the bathroom one night, after the strict lights out, that they overhead a discussion, that they definitely should not have overheard.

it was then, in that split second, standing paralysed with fear, in the pale light that a thought hit her. i'm in a cult, which was quickly followed by her long-gone brother’s dictionary definition voice, a cult is a system of religious veneration and devotion directed towards a particular figure or object, which was followed by the one thought that he'd been circling her brain since that day, i'm fucked.

and, right now, she was fucked. the bag, heavy with stacks and stacks of notes, was still gripped in her hand, and she knew the police would be here soon, and the getaway driver was nowhere in sight. maybe it's a trap, she thought, maybe this is it. they’re sick of your tricks, and all the shit you’ve caused them, you’re done, violet baudelaire.

they were sick of here, that much was certain, ever since the day she and the other girl, whose name violet had long forgotten, flora, maybe?, were found listening in. the girl, fiona?, had tried to get out as soon as she could and she’d disappeared. there was never anymore mention of her, and if she was brought up, any rumours were quickly squashed. so violet had shut up, and waited for the right time to leave.

but there’s never a right time to leave a cult. you can't leave cults, that's why they're called cults.

so she’d started trying to take them down from the inside, teaming up with the other children, no matter how many times she was locked in an empty room, until she was practically comatose due to lack of food and water, no matter how many times they destroyed her work, she didn't give up. because a lot of things in her shitty life made sense now. these people killed her mother, they killed her father, killed her book smart brother and sweet baby sunny, these people got her put into foster care, with a man who hadn't taken his hands off her. and they did this to everyone. there was no was no way she was giving up. 

vfd was going to burn, or so was she.

but that had been years ago, when she was only small, fuelled by a constant sadness and anger, unable to understand the way of the world. now she knew, people just sucked, and she had fallen in with the wrong crowd. and, as she grew up, her determination faded, and she was more interested in staying alive. and if that meant robbing banks and burning down buildings, she’d do it.

there was a roaring of an engine, and she was jerked out of her thoughts, as a sleek car pulled into the curb in front of her. she knew it was them instantly, so she pulled open the passenger seat door, and clambered into the seat. 

before she'd even had time to shut the door, the driver pulled out into the street again, and they roared down the highway.

violet placed the bag between her legs and looked over at the driver, “thanks.”

he shrugged, quickly glancing over at her before returning his eyes to the road. “it's my job.”

“it's polite.” violet prompted.

“i just picked you up after you robbed a bank.” the driver said, not bothering to look at her. “i don't think you do polite.”

“you don't know me.”

“yeah, i do. and you're right, you did do polite.” the driver shrugged, turning his face back towards her, and she gasped.

“quagmire?”

he nodded.

“oh my god, i haven't seen you since--”

“since we almost took them down.”

“yeah.” violet sighed. “i don't do that anymore.”

the driver chuckled, sadly. “and i thought you were the most determined.”

violet shrugged. “they could kill me now.”

“why don't they?”

“because i run their errands.”

“crime?” he laughed. “if that's the worst, then you haven't experienced life.”

“you want to talk to me about life?” violet hissed, turning in her seat, eyes threatening to spill. “did you watch your entire family die? in front of you?”

he was quiet for a little while. “yes.”

violet hisses through her teeth. “great, cross it off the bingo square.”

he laughed, dryly. “i don't remember you being funny.”

“we were thirteen year olds, quigley.” she cried, turning back towards him. “in a cult, with our entire families dead, i wonder why i wasn't cracking jokes every three seconds.”

“we’re still in a cult.” quigley sighed. “and our entire families are still dead. you're funny now.”

“yeah, well, you can't get me to quit by taking away my book anymore.”

“but you did quit.”

“i value my life.”

“it's not a life.” quigley sighed.

“it's better than nothing.”

“no, it's not.”

violet sighed, burying her head in her hands. “it's not.”

“so let's start again.” quigley prompts. “and this time we do it, or we die.”

violet is quiet for a long time, thinking. her thoughts move quickly, they start with facts, they can kill us, move to a mental argument, they'll kill us, not if we do it first, and then change to memories.

she’s four years old, and reading a picture book to klaus.

she's five years old, cooking with her mother.

she's six years old, ballroom dancing with klaus in the lounge room.

she's seven years old, as her mother teaches her how to tie up her hair.

she’s eight years old, trying to teach klaus to tie his shoelaces.

she's nine years old and her father looks up at her, across the table and fondly refers to her as ‘ed’.

she’s ten years old, and mum and dad bring home the new baby.

she's eleven years old, snuggled into a blanket fort, klaus by her side and sunny on her lap.

she's twelve years old, screaming wildly, her face stained with ash and tears, as her house and her family burns before her eyes.

she's twelve years old, hiding in the cupboard, as she hears him prowling around outside.

she's thirteen years old, plotting to take down a cult.

she's fourteen years old, locked in a tiny cupboard, quigley pressed against her side, as they're kept away from the others, trying to stop them.

she's fifteen years old, and she's so close, standing, a match in her hand, she throws it, and the building catches alight in a matter of seconds, and they've done it, so she turns to quigley, gleeful fear on her face, and he's not there. there hands around her mouth, and she's caught again.

she's sixteen years old, and she kills the man for them.

“okay.” she says, finally. “we do it, or we die.”

and so they do, 

they destroy vfd or they die.

they do one of the two.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know?


End file.
